Discretion

by Allison Leotta

  Anna took a subpoena out of her briefcase and handed it to Brian. “Come to the grand jury next week. Bring a lawyer if you want one. In the meantime, it would help if you didn’t tell anyone that you’ve spoken with us or what information you shared.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  He seemed sincere, but Anna knew that Hamilton would be calling the shots as soon as they left. And he had different incentives than his concierge. This club didn’t even reveal their members’ names. What else would they do to protect them?

  17

  An hour later, Anna walked through the ninth floor of the U.S. Attorney’s Office, home of the Homicide and Major Crimes sections. It was just one floor below the Sex Crimes section but had a totally different vibe. Sex Crimes had so many female prosecutors that it was nicknamed the Pink-Collar Unit. Homicide was macho—most of the prosecutors were men, as were almost all the homicide detectives. Sex Crimes offices were decorated with plants, pictures, children’s drawings, and desk lamps that threw more flattering light than the fluorescents overhead. Homicide offices were decorated with gym bags and crime-scene photos clumped in corners. Sex Crimes prosecutors kept candy bowls on their desks. Homicide prosecutors kept bottles of Scotch in their drawers. The two floors even had different odors. The Sex Crimes section smelled of potpourri, Glade FreshScents, and fruity Body Shop lotions. If the Body Shop tried to bottle the scent of the Homicide section, Anna thought, they might call it Testosterone.

  When she got to Jack’s office, he looked up from his desk and smiled at her. She sank into a chair. His office had no personal decorations except for a single picture of Olivia, facing him, so witnesses couldn’t see it. One of his bookshelves was crammed with awards and plaques he hadn’t bothered to hang, gathering dust and barely visible behind pamphlets on DNA testing.

  “When are you gonna get some women here in Homicide?” Anna asked. “Your floor would smell better. Look better, too.”

  “You disapprove of my interior decorating?”

  “Seriously, how many of your twenty prosecutors are women? Five?”

  He shrugged. “A lot of young women, like you, want to work on crimes targeting women, so they apply to Sex Crimes. And lawyers who are mothers usually try to work in sections where they can control their hours, like Appellate or Special Proceedings.”

  “You could make Homicide more family-friendly. Offer part-time positions, flexible hours.” She smiled at him. “Join the twenty-first century.”

  “Homicide prosecution isn’t a part-time job. A murder happens, we have to respond.”

  “Carla does it in Sex Crimes. It works. And her employees love her for it.”

  “Good for Carla. If people want to come to this section, they have to be committed to it.”

  Anna realized she wasn’t the only one from whom Jack demanded total commitment. Jack’s Homicide section was so elite that he had a surplus of young lawyers eager to work long hours for him. They wouldn’t complain.

  He pointed to his computer screen. “Take a look at this—Lionel is about to have a press conference.”

  “You’re kidding!” She leaned forward and peered over his desk. “Think he’s gonna confess?”

  “Yeah, right. But whatever he says might be interesting. The tech guys are taping it. Tell me what you learned at the Hunt Club.”

  Anna described the interview with Discretion’s tester. “Sam’s tracking down the madam. As soon as we find her, we’ll get her into the grand jury.”

  “Good.” Jack tapped his desk, a bit of nervous energy she didn’t usually see from him. “I don’t like you going with the agents on search warrants. If you see anything useful, you could make yourself a necessary witness, and you won’t be able to help me prosecute the case. If you don’t see anything useful, you’re just wasting your time.”

  “C’mon,” she said. “You go on plenty of search warrants. So do a lot of the older lawyers in your section. There’s always an agent who can testify about whatever I see. Why shouldn’t I go?”

  “I only go under special circumstances. And you shouldn’t do it just because the ungovernables do. The FBI doesn’t need another lawyer there. You’re not armed or trained.” He paused and looked away. “I worry about you.”

  “Don’t.” She lowered her voice. “Treat me exactly like any other prosecutor in your section. Pretend I’m Harold Schwarzendruber.”

  “You’re much better-looking than Harold,” Jack whispered back.

  “Not in the office, I’m not. Take me seriously.”

  “I do.” He grinned. “It’s Harold Schwarzendruber I don’t take seriously.”

  Their argument was interrupted by Vanetta yelling from her desk. “Jack, the press conference is on!”

  Jack turned to the computer and maximized the streaming video. “I bet he says he can’t comment because he doesn’t want to ‘interfere in our investigation.’”

  Anna was happy to turn to something besides their relationship. She sat in a guest chair and watched the live-streaming news. Lionel’s press conference was arranged in the usual tableau: The Congressman gripped a podium as if trying to choke it. Betty stood one step behind and to the left, gazing at him serenely, her hands clasped lightly in front of her blue suit. American and D.C. flags formed the backdrop. The Congressman read from a written statement, forcing the words out through a tight grimace.

  “I’ve been honored and humbled to serve the people of the District of Columbia for the last thirty-one years. Together, we’ve accomplished many great things. Throughout my tenure, I’ve always prided myself on being straight with the people I represent. And I’m gonna be straight with you now.” Lionel cleared his throat, then continued reading. “What happened last night was a tragedy. My wife and I are praying for that young woman’s family. My office will cooperate fully with the authorities to get to the bottom of this incident. I’m willing and available to be interviewed, as are my staff. So far”—he said with a shake of his head—“no one has asked me.”

  “What a load of crap,” Anna said. “We asked his lawyer. We can’t ask him; he’s a represented party.”

  Jack shrugged it off. He was used to the political posturing.

  “The Lord knows, I’m not a perfect man,” Lionel continued. “I’ve made some mistakes in my life. I haven’t always been the husband that Betty deserved. For this, I am truly sorry.”

  Over his shoulder, Betty nodded beatifically.

  “Poor Betty,” Anna said. “If it were me, I’d kill him. I’d stab him right there at the podium. No jury would convict me.”

  “Ouch.” Jack winced. “C’mon, no one’s perfect. Men make mistakes.”

  Anna glanced at him, wondering what mistakes Jack had made that gave him such sympathy. But Lionel was working up steam in his speech.

  “Let me be perfectly clear: I had nothing to do with what happened to that young woman last night! I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as the police do. I call for a complete and honest investigation.” Lionel looked up from his notes for the first time, speaking directly into the camera. His voice, which so far had been subdued, returned to its trademark growl. “And I demand an independent prosecutor. It can be no coincidence that mere weeks before the Democratic primary, this investigation is being pushed by prosecutor Jack Bailey, who is a friend and supporter of my challenger. I will not stand for a political witch hunt!”

  Anna glanced at Jack; Lionel was trying to make the case about him. The muscles in Jack’s jaw were clenching and unclenching. He was furious.

  “I had nothing to do with this woman’s death, and I expect to be fully exonerated. In the meantime, I will continue my fight for the people of D.C. Together, we will continue to work to make this the best city in America. God bless you all.”

  Lionel took Betty’s hand, and they walked out a side door together. Whatever mistakes he had made, his wife appeared to have forgiven him. Anna wondered what would happen behind that door. Would she slap him, like The Good Wife, or
was she really as supportive as she appeared?

  Jack picked up the phone.

  “Who are you calling?” she asked.

  “Daniel Davenport. Apparently, Lionel can’t wait for us to interview him.”

  “Should you really be the one making the call?”

  “What, because of that ‘independent-prosecutor’ bullshit? The defendant always wants to make the case about what the government does instead of the crime he committed. You can’t let it distract you.”

  “But maybe he’s got a point. You’re a friend of his opponent.”

  “You think I’m investigating this case to help out my buddy?” Jack put down the phone. “I’m the Homicide chief, and a homicide took place on Lionel’s balcony. I investigate it.”

  “I’m not criticizing you, but it does look . . . funny. Somebody who doesn’t know you might perceive a conflict of interest. Young-blood is telling people that if he’s elected, he’ll make you the U.S. Attorney. That could be used against you.”

  “No, Anna. This is trick number one in the sleazy-defense-attorney playbook—attack the prosecutor. You can’t back down. You stand your ground and do your job.”

  “Davenport isn’t sleazy. But he knows what he’s doing. He’s got a real issue, and he’s gonna make the most of it. I’m not saying he’s right, but if you’re not careful, it could come back and bite you on the—”

  “Okay, Anna.” Jack held up a hand. “I get your point. But I’ve made my decision. And it’s final.” He picked up the phone and smiled at her as he dialed. “You can come to the interview, too. Make sure I don’t turn it into a political witch hunt.”

  She didn’t smile back. “I think you’re making a mistake.”

  He ignored her and spoke into the phone. A coal of frustration heated Anna’s chest as Jack talked with Davenport. She didn’t like being dismissed with a wave of the hand, as if she were a fly buzzing around his ear.

  Daniel Davenport made a living turning the tables on prosecutors. The defense attorney would use Jack’s friendship with Lionel’s competitor as an element of Lionel’s defense. No matter how careful Anna and Jack might be, their case would rely on evidence collection and processing by teams of officers, technicians, and clerical workers, all with different degrees of skill and motivation. Mistakes were inevitable, but Davenport would frame any mistake through the lens of Jack’s motive to help Youngblood. Such accusations had the potential not only to sink a case but to do serious damage to Jack’s career.

  Jack was too stubborn to back down or even talk about it. This could go very badly, Anna thought.

  18

  Nicole bolted upright in Belinda’s guest bed. She’d been dreaming that she was falling through darkness. The most terrifying part was not the fear of crashing but the certainty that the abyss had no end.

  She’d sweated through her little black dress. The room was dark except for a crack of light coming from under the door. How long had she slept? She checked the time on her cell phone: 8:47 P.M. Shit.

  She scrolled through the call log. While she was sleeping, she’d missed three calls from unknown numbers—three potential clients calling in response to her Backpage ad to set up dates for tonight. Falling asleep during the crucial late-afternoon booking time was incredibly bad business. But she’d been so tired and upset, her body had crashed.

  Maybe she could still catch some of the guys. She called the first number.

  “Hello?” answered a man.

  “Hi.” She used her breathless, flirty voice. “This is Bethany. You called? I’m sorry I didn’t pick up.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’m available tonight if you’re still looking to book an appointment.”

  “I already made other plans.”

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out today. Maybe next time?”

  “Maybe.”

  Click.

  She tried the other numbers. One gave her a similar response; the other didn’t pick up. She cursed her bad luck, her bad timing, her—okay, she’d admit it—stupidity in falling asleep when she should have been fielding calls and setting up dates.

  To make matters worse, she was getting the unbearable craving that made it hard to concentrate on anything else. She felt lethargic and low; the whole world appeared gray. Only another hit would provide the intense euphoria that—for a few minutes, at least—would make her feel all right.

  She fished through her bag for Belinda’s prescription bottles, popped a couple of codeine, and swallowed them dry. The pills made their painful way down her throat. When they hit her stomach, they would make her feel a little better, though they wouldn’t satisfy her real craving. She needed the sweet smoke of rocked-up cocaine burning its way into her lungs. And for that, she needed cash.

  There was one place where she could always make a quick buck. She wasn’t proud of it, but no one would know. The house was quiet—Belinda was out conducting her own business. And none of her friends would be caught dead where Nicole was heading.

  Nicole promised herself that this was just a quick fix until she got back on her feet. This wasn’t going to be her life—she was just resourceful. She was a survivor.

  She couldn’t go out like this. Pulling off her sweaty dress, Nicole padded down the hallway in black panties and bra and crept into her friend’s room. Belinda’s venture must be doing well; her walk-in closet could have starred in a Sex and the City movie. Nicole spun a lazy-Susan-like shoe rack and chose a pair of high strappy stilettos. Then she plucked out a slate-gray leather dress with broad zippers slashing diagonally across the front. She checked the label: Hervé Léger. It must have cost over two thousand dollars. She hated to ruin the dress, but Belinda could afford it.

  She went to the bathroom and ran the shower. As she waited for the water to heat up, she unclasped her pearl necklace and tucked it regretfully into her bag. This wasn’t going to be a string-of-pearls kind of night.

  19

  Anna hurried to the USAO gym, hoping to arrive before Eva Youngblood’s self-defense class ended at nine P.M. There was an infinite amount of office work that Anna could be doing on the homicide case; the motion to obtain the congressional videos alone could keep her late every night. She would’ve skipped the self-defense class entirely, but she wanted to talk to Eva about Caroline. If Anna waited for Samantha to do it, the information might come too late to be of any use.

  Jack had long since headed home for Monday “movie night” with Olivia. Anna could picture him tapping away on his laptop as Olivia watched the Disney movie of the week. He’d asked Anna to join them, suggesting she work from home, too. But she demurred. Part of the reason was she knew Olivia didn’t want her there. Another part was that it was easier for Anna to do her work at the office—an excuse Jack always respected. But neither reason was the whole truth. The fact was, Anna was still a little annoyed by how quickly Jack had discounted her opinion about a potential conflict of interest. She knew she shouldn’t take it personally, but it felt personal. Would he brush her off so cavalierly if they were colleagues with no personal relationship?

  When Jack had asked her to be on the case, he’d said he needed her. Those words had meant a lot to her. So far, though, he seemed to put very little weight in her judgment.

  As Anna walked into the gym, the students from Eva’s class were leaving the floor and heading for the showers. A handful of women carried powder-blue flyers; Anna couldn’t see what they said. Blotting her face with a towel, Grace came up to Anna. “Hey, there you are! We thought yesterday’s class scared you away!”

  “No.” Anna laughed. “But this Capitol homicide case is a hot mess. I couldn’t get here earlier.”

  Grace lowered her voice. “How’s it working out, doing a case with Jack?”

  Anna smiled ruefully. “Some ups and some downs.”

  “Highlight the ups. The whole office is watching. It’s not every day you get to prosecute a congressman for killing a prostitute. There’s been some gossip about why Ja
ck put you on the case. You know how people are.”

  “What are they saying?” Anna said softly.

  “Just jealousy.” Grace waved dismissively. “Did he put you on the case for your brains or your boobs, that sort of thing. Ignore it. But—try not to screw anything up.”

  “Wonderful.” Anna knew the talk would be worse if her relationship with Jack were public. She changed the subject. “How was Rosa Mexicano?”

  “Fun. We missed you.”

  “Next time,” Anna said. “Promise.”

  “No worries,” Grace trilled. “This is make-or-break time for you, my dear. I’ll force margaritas on you when it’s done.”

  “Sounds great.”

  Grace squeezed Anna’s shoulder and headed to the locker room. Anna turned to the mats, where Eva was collecting foam pillows. The petite instructor looked like an athletic-gear model, in black pants with fuchsia racing stripes and a tight fuchsia tank top that showcased her muscular arms. Her dark hair was pulled into a long ponytail. Anna set her gym bag on the floor and went over to the instructor.

  “I’m sorry I missed today’s class,” Anna began. “I have this case—”

  “No need to explain,” Eva said. “I’m married to a lawyer. I know all plans are tentative.” She handed Anna a powder-blue flyer. “Dylan and I are having a fund-raiser Friday night. All my students are invited.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Anna said. She couldn’t go to Dylan Youngblood’s fund-raiser in the middle of an investigation of his rival. She looked at the flyer. It started at five hundred dollars a head. She held back a laugh. Even if she weren’t conflicted out of the party, she was certainly budgeted out of it. She tucked the flyer in her bag. “I actually came tonight because there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Ask away. But you really should make up today’s lesson,” Eva said.

  “I know. Maybe I’ll sign up for the class next time you offer it.”

  “Don’t wait until my next class. Let’s do it now.”